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I had to take this blog down because of comment spam. I’m now trying to get it back up to speed. Stay tuned…

Eric Enlow’s thoughtful comments on my “anti-Catholicism” post got me thinking about Evangelical / Protestant perspectives on natural law theory. An excellent 1992 First Things article helps put the question in perspective. I think I tend towards the author’s conclusion that the reformers didn’t dramatically break with Catholic thinking on natural law. The core of natural law theory — that there exists a natural law, rooted in the moral structure of creation, that can be apprehended through reason — remained intact, but with qualifications arising from the reformed view of original sin and the sufficiency of scripture.

As an Evangelical, I am uncomfortable with an overly optimistic natural law theory, precisely because of my understanding of total depravity. Yet, I’m equally uncomfortable with a natural law theory that is largely limited to principles expressly stated in the specific revelation of scripture. What do I do, for example, with modern property and intellectual property law, which is deeply rooted in economic theory and utilitarianism? It seems a distant level of abstraction to claim that some particular principle in scripture relates to the extent and duration of copyright in digital works. If scripture doesn’t speak directly to a legal concept, am I then left only with positivism? And if the answer to that question is “no,” doesn’t the gap have to be filled with something resembling classical natural law theory? I don’t have the answers, but these are questions I hope to be able to pursue.

a href=”http://jollyblogger.typepad.com/jollyblogger/”>Jollyblogger makes an interesting point about the link between classical liberalism and the emerging church movement. One element I think he overlooks, however, is the impact of the missiological concept of contextualization on these developing movements. I suspect an advocate of the emerging church movement would say that the world doesn’t set the “agenda” for the church, but the cultural context of the church is the context within which the church’s agenda is set and carried out.

Just like a missionary to a tribal people will need to translate concepts such as sin, grace and redemption in ways that the those people can understand — often using ideas from old tribal stories — the emerging church, ideally, seeks to translate these concepts in ways that postmodern westerners will understand. This isn’t such a new idea, nor does it have its roots in classical liberalism. In fact, the process of contextualization is evidenced throughout scripture. Compare the very Jewish Gospel of Matthew with the very Hellenistic Gospel of John, for example, or look at Paul’s sermon on Mars Hill.

This isn’t to discount the insight about classical liberalism’s influence on the emerging church movement entirely, however. It’s certainly possible to slide from contextualization to a loss of Christian distinctives. But that’s always been a tension as the gospel is introduced to new cultures; it’s not a reason to abandon the missionary enterprise. I still view the emerging church movement as a mission to postmoderns.

a href=”http://jollyblogger.typepad.com”>Jollyblogger continues an interesting discussion about the nature of Truth. In particular, he critiques an Open Letter to Chuck Colson written by emergent church movement leader Brian McLaren. Although Jollyblogger’s post is thoughtful, I’m afraid he grossly oversimplifies McLaren’s position. McCLaren doesn’t simply say “truth corresponds to reality.” Rather, he notes that a complete understanding of “Truth” is multifaceted. From this premise, McLaren notes his discomfort with simplistic characterizations that pit “postmodernism” (understood as “relativism”) against “absolute truth.”

McLaren’s analysis resonates with me, as does the concept of “epistemological uncertainty” to which Jollyblogger responds. My evangelical / fundamentalist tradition places great weight on the certainty of salvation. When I was younger, this bothered me greatly. If I was honest with myself, salvation can’t be in the same category of “knowledge” as, for example, the knowledge that I’m sitting at my desk typing this post. I can’t “know” the Christian faith itself is true with any empirical certainty because many of the doctrinal assertions of the faith are beyond empirical testing; that’s why it’s called “faith” rather than “sight.” It follows that I can’t “know” with absolute, empirical certainty that I have salvation — my faith may be misplaced.

Indeed, even my “knowledge” that I’m sitting at my desk typing this post is limited; I can’t definitively prove that my perception of sitting at a desk isn’t merely an excellent illusion.
I can, however, refer to some guideposts that convince me of the reasonableness of my belief that I really am sitting at a desk typing. I perceive the physical sensations of the chair and my computer keyboard; I have memories of where I was before I sat here; I have memories of sitting here previously; I see the effects I’m having on my environment (words on the computer screen), etc. In contrast, I have no evidence to suggest that my perception of these events is illusory. So, it is reasonable for me to believe that I really am sitting here at a desk typing. In that sense, I “know” I am sitting at a desk typing. But, I can’t “know” this in the absolute sense of disproving the possiblity that all my memories and sensations are illusory.

Similarly, I can refer to some guideposts that convince me of the reasonableness of my faith. I examine the historic evidence of the reliability of scripture, the teachings of scripture about the nature of salvation, the evidence of the efficacy of Christ’s salvific work throughout the history of the Church, and the evidence of His salvific work in my personal life. Based on these evidences, it’s reasonable for me to conclude that I’m saved. But again, I can’t “know” this in an absolute sense. And, in fact, the level of my “knowledge” is less certain than the level of my knowledge that I’m currently sitting in a chair typing. (All of this, BTW, is aside from the doctrinal question whether I can have assurance that I’m among the elect).

Of course, my epistemological uncertainty about whether I’m really here typing and whether I’m saved doesn’t preclude a certain answer to the question. I’m either here or I’m not; I’m either saved or I’m not. But I can continue stretching the continuum of epistemological certainty to where there isn’t a conclusive answer. For example, does my wife really love me? I reasonably believe she does based on how she relates to me. But not only can I not know her heart for certain, her heart, like every human heart, is inconceivably complex. What I call “love” is at one level a mix of genetic programming, tradition, training, choice and emotion; and at another level a result of God’s sovereign choices about my (and my wife’s) life mate. There is no simple, “absolute Truth” way to answer this question. Saying this doesn’t mean there is no “Truth” at all. It simply means the Truth isn’t a simple matter.

This recognition of the complexity of Truth, to me, is a breath of fresh air. One reason I left law practice for academia (I’m a law professor) was that I quickly tired of having to take sides in complex disputes. Rarely in a civil lawsuit is one side or the other entirely “right.” I relish nuance and complexity because that’s how life really is. To me, it’s just dishonest to claim that everything can be accounted for neatly by a set of propositional statements. That’s not to say the propositional statements are bad or should be ignored or eliminated. It’s just to say that I’m compelled by efforts to move beyond the propositions to engage the complexity that underlies them.

I’ve been wrestling with the question why God gave us the scriptures in a collection of stories and letters rather than as a list of propositions. If it’s possible to reduce scriptural teachings to a set of first principles or creedal statements, why didn’t God hand those to us in the first instance? Why leave room for endless debates and schisms over the sorts of things we like to discuss in blogs like this one?

Obviously, I’m not the first to ask these questions. The Biblical Theology movement is one effort to address them, by viewing revelation as a progressive process that culminates in Christ. Liberal theology, too, addresses these questions by giving up on efforts to find any real normative content in the scriptures. And Neoorthodoxy does so as well, with the view that scripture is a witness to God’s self-revelation in Christ.

Evangelicals, like me, who seek to apply the literary-historical-grammatical method of interpretaion and hold to some version of verbal inspiration and inerrancy, recognize the importance of context, but nevertheless historically have tended to view scripture primarily as a source of propositional statements. I have to admit that this approach has been leaving me flat lately. Yet, I’m not satisfied with any of the other dominant views of revelation, which seem to me to give up too much.

This is one reason the “postmodern” or “emerging” church movement’s emphasis on “story” appeals to me. Scripture isn’t merely a set of propositions; it’s also a set of very human stories. Being Christian isn’t merely assenting to a creed; it’s living a life story that’s part of God’s bigger story of redemption. I’m weary of three-point sermons and tidy explanations of how everything clearly fits into “our” system. I want to be more like the Pevensie children caught up in a great, adventurous story and less like a whitewashed tomb.

Jollyblogger continues the interesting discussion about the nature of knowledge — check it out.

I went camping with my 6-year-old son this past weekend. We were eating dinner and I asked him, “what’s your favorite thing in the whole world.” “You mean besides Jesus,” he asked — my heart was already beaming. “Yes, that’s a wonderful answer, but besides Jesus,” I said. “Camping alone with you,” he said right away. Brings tears to my eyes!

There’s an interesting conversation going on, again, atJollyblogger regarding political involvement. Coming from a dispensational background, this has always been an interesting question to me. I remember speakers at our church’s “Summer Bible Conference,” in particular one of the “end times” guys who showed up every year, who thought they had geopolitics all figured out in light of Daniel’s sixty six weeks and the eschatalogical visions in Revelation. To them it was clear: support for Israel was good; internationalism, the UN, the EU and communism were bad; and ultimately politics doesn’t matter, because it all ultimately is wrapped up in God’s prophetic plan. It was all very simple and self-evident. The fundamental message, at least the message I heard as an impressionable adolescent, was that there’s something unseemly about global politics; this world’s governance systems are passing away in any event; better to focus on evangelistic missions.

I still lean dispensational, or at least “progressive dispensational.” Like most progressive dispensationalists, and I think like most of the leaders today in the dispensational church in which I was raised, I don’t think geopolitics are so simple or clear. Rather, as I noted at Jollyblogger, I take a view that might be something of a fusion between reformed and dispensational perspectives (which, I suppose, is consistent with my progressive dispensationalism). So here are a few of the thoughts I shared there:

In terms of how we are supposed to love, very much rides on what happens in this world. Love compels us to seek the kind of political stability, intellectual freedom, and educational levels that are conducive to individual health and well-being and to evangelism. Further, God has commanded us to “do justice and love mercy” in this world (Micah 6:8). Justice and mercy, of course, are fundamental attributes of God’s character. Our efforts to do justice and practice mercy in this world matter in a deep and abiding way because God primarily expresses these attributes of His character in the world through His people.

Moreover, eschatologically, as individual Christians and corporately as the Church, we will indeed be held accountable for what happens in the city of man. True, we will not be subject to God’s wrath and separated from His presence in hell, regardless of how we perform in this life, because we are redeemed and justified by Christ. However, scripture does speak of varying levels of reward for believers. In some sense that we don’t yet fully appreciate, the way in which we fullfill our stewardship in this world will affect the nature of our participation in the eschatological Kingdom.

The society-building work we do now will carry over in some way Christ’s Millenial reign on Earth, and further will carry over in some way to the fullfillment of the Kingdom in the new creation. In fact, regardless of one’s beliefs about the nature of the “tribulation,” the millenium, and Christ’s second coming, any full concept of the Kingdom of God must recognize that the “already” aspect of the Kingdom relates in some real way to the “not yet.”

This July 4th weekend, as every July 4th weekend, like many evangelical churches, my church will hold a “patriotic Sunday.” We acknowledge folks in the congregation who’ve served in the military, pray for our national leaders, and so forth. My dad marches down the aisle with the other vets who can still fit in their old service uniforms. We sing “patriotic” hymns like “God Bless America,” and the sermon tends to focus on some theme having to do with America’s national decline and the need to bring God “back” into the schools and such. In the past few years, a 40-foot American flag has been draped on the wall behind the choir loft. People love it. I hate it.

Before you blast me, dear reader, please know that I love my country. I believe America on the whole has been a force for good in the world, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, and I honor the men and women who’ve honorably served our country in the armed forces. But I’m not blind to my country’s faults, historic and present. And, more importantly, I think Patriotic Sunday is idolatrous.

I suppose the big flag behind the choir loft is what galls me most. It coincidentally covers the usual decoration on that wall, which is a Mercator projection of the world map intersected by a cross and the words “He is Lord of All.” I like that decoration, not because it’s particularly artistically compelling (its gotten kind of old and cheesy), but because it suggests that our local church, and we believers who attend it, are just one part of a global family of the faith. At least it suggest that to me. I suspect that, when it was originally installed, the feeling was a bit more that we are the center of a missions movement bringing our enlightened ways to the world. But the missions culture in our local church now is a pretty good one. Those involved in the missions program would heartily agree (at least I think for the most part) that we are first citizens of the Kingdom of God, and, as such, that our citizenship is transnational. When that American flag obscures the map-and-cross, it suggests a grossly misplaced first loyalty.

The flag thing could be dismissed as an unfortunate or insensitive mistake. The broader context of Patriotic Sunday, however, is just as disturbing to me. Why should we imply that “patriotism” is part of Christian discipleship? America is not, never was, and never will be a “Christian” nation. That’s not how it works in God’s economy (a word, incidentally, that comes from the Greek “ekoinomia,” from which the idea of different “economies” or “dispensations” of God’s administration of His Kingdom derives). A dispensational view of redemptive history in particular should lead to skepticism about mixing patriotism and faith. God raises and fells nations and rulers within the context of His purposes in history, but even we dispensationalists (really, particularly we dispensationalists) don’t recognize any chosen nation other than Israel. The Kingdom will be fully realized only by Christ’s return, and His eschatological reign over and judgment of the nations. We should expect to find something of a hollow core once the shell of civic religion is peeled away.

Of course, this isn’t to say anti-Americanism is appropriate, that all nations are morally equivalent, or that political involvement is futile. It’s simply a matter of first loyalties and the proper allocation of affections. Our first loyalty is to Christ and his Church. That loyalty shouldn’t be diluted by adding civic loyalties to the mix when we gather for worship

I’ve just finished reading Os Guinness’ book Fit Bodies, Fat Minds: Why Evangelicals Don’t Think and What to Do About It. There are some good general reviews of the book on Amazon. I’d agree with some of those reviews that accept the book’s overall premise (that Evangelicals have forgotten how to think), but find it analytically thin.

A chapter on “virtual reality” in particular dates the book, as VR technology, and the dangers Guinness saw in it, never materialized. It would be interesting to hear, however, what Guinness thinks of the blogsphere. The blogsphere poses some of the same dangers as VR, in that it provides a sense of community without “real” personal contact, relies on shorthand communicative conventions, and gives voice to thought that varies widely in quality.

Yet those same qualities could equally be seen as strengths. We — me, the blogging author, and you, the readers and commentators — couldn’t have this conversation without the blogsphere. And blogging communities do tend to police quality informally, as higher quality blogs get read and cited as authoritative within the sphere. So, I would view blogging as a promising tool for evangelical intellectual renewal.